


Timing

by ashen_key



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Children Are Cockblockers, Comment Fic, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Kid Fic, Parenthood, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-14 00:05:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashen_key/pseuds/ashen_key
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You have pretty bad timing, lapushka,” Natasha informs the baby. “You were supposed to having a nap.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Timing

**Author's Note:**

> Written because the lj community **be_compromised** is having an impromptu kissing fest.
> 
> 'lapushka' means 'little paw', as far as the internet informs me.

There is a new scar on her stomach, an angry red line running down near her naval. Given she has her naked husband flat on his back in their bed as she straddles him, the only reason she's paying attention to to the scar is that he's brushing over it with his thumb. 

“I thought I told you to stay still,” Natasha says, looking down at him with a raised eyebrow. 

Clint grins at her, slides his hand across her skin to rest at her hip. Not rest; his thumb plays with the top of her panties, the movements a tease rather than a request for the garment to be removed. “Must be bad at orders,” he says.

Natasha leans forward with one hand on the mattress next to his shoulder, and the movement causes her unbuttoned sundress to billow slightly. She doesn't normally liken sex to any kind of religion, but her sundress is acting like a robe; between that and the muted sunlight from the half-drawn curtains, she feels not unlike a priestess. 

“Do I have to tie you up?” is what she asks, tilting her chin down as she peers at him, pursing her lips together and entirely failing to hide the laughter in her eyes. 

“Do you want to?” If anyone is the worshipper here, it's him, and the way he's looking at her, amusement and all. 

“Mmm, haven't decided,” and Natasha trails her fingers up his chest, up over the fragile of his throat and higher before following the movements with her mouth. She laps at his collarbone even as he catches her thumb with his mouth, dragging his teeth lightly across the pad and then drawing the digit in and sucking. 

Her breath stutters at that, and she moves, pulls her hand away to frame his face as she starts to kiss his mouth. Clint groans a little and leans up into the kiss, sliding his tongue against hers even as he slides his hands over her body. Their movements are languid and lingering, and she slowly lowers herself against him, breast to chest as she shifts her legs, slips a thigh between his and presses against his erection. That gets a sound somewhere between a groan and whine, and her laughter turns their kiss open-mouthed, full of hitched breaths and pants as she moves against him.

“Ta-tasha,” Clint manages, and then pulls her head back down so he can kiss her fully, his movements almost clumsy. Her own response is starting to become that mingled moment where thought and motion are merge together in sensual surrender when there comes a _thump_ at their closed bedroom door. 

Natasha pauses and, half a second later, so does Clint. 

There is another _thump_.

“For fuck's sake,” Clint mutters, passing a hand over his eyes as Natasha rolls off him. 

“Da-a-a-a-ddy,” and John's voice is a whimpering wail on the other side of the door. 

“...how the hell,” Natasha says, slipping off the bed and twisting her hair at the base of her neck to get it out of the way, “did he get out of the cot?”

“He's _your_ son, Nat,” Clint says, sounding both frustrated and entertained. 

“And he spends all day with _you_ ,” she points out, as John wails again. “Coming, lapushka,” she calls out in Russian, making her way across the floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Clint pull his boxers on, and he's hunting for his jeans by the time she's opening the door. 

John, sturdy and blond and clutching a stuffed purple dragon, looks up tearfully. “Daddy,” he says, sounding mournful. “Up,” he adds, in English.

“Mama,” Natasha corrects, feeling her mouth twist wryly. Her son is too young for the word to really be a _name_ , yet, particularly when he just wants comforting. It's a title for parent, and usually that parent is Clint. Still, it doesn't sit all that pleasantly with her, and once she has picked John up and he's settled against her with a small arm around her neck, she holds him close.

“You have pretty bad timing, lapushka,” she informs the baby, still in Russian. “You were supposed to having a nap.”

“Nyet nap,” John says, setting his jaw stubbornly and making Clint laugh softly. 

“You're both stubborn,” Clint says, and the laugh is stronger as both Natasha and John turn to look at him. “Stubborn escape artists.”

“He's not yet two,” Natasha says, her English very precise.

“Yeah, but he didn't get the ability to escape from behind bars from me.” Clint runs his hand through his hair. “Okay, you want me to put him back to sleep?”

Natasha thinks about it for a moment, and then finds that she's swaying slightly as she holds John. Slightly, automatically, her body reacting unconsciously to try and soothe him. So, she shakes her head.

“I'll do it. And then, when I come back....we'll see,” she adds honestly, even as she smirks at the resignation on Clint's face. Given John's current state of contrariness, by the time she gets him settled, she's more than likely just going to want to crawl into bed and sleep herself. 

“Such promises,” he says, and Natasha is laughing to herself as she walks out of her bedroom and towards her son's.


End file.
